Lurking in the attic, nostalgia
sojourns. Within the unswept chest of child-
hood mere memories have become impaired.
Absent is the luster of past summer times;
Bike rides aside the waterways and climbs
over the sand hills when we were skipping
school. Weathered are our brows, our passing primes.
Ardour concedes to cunning, just as spring
to summer then fall, but accounts of times past, sing.